Author: prayerfullife7

My summer Alaska trip had been a complete success, I had made enough money to pay for books the coming year, in addition to some tuition and spending money. Equally important I had a better sense of myself, my strengths and weaknesses in the face of difficulties, and a deeper understanding and compassion for others who find themselves in tough circumstances and need a helping hand, or friendship, or simple kindness.

I had fallen away from organized religion over the past few years, though I still had an inner appreciation and love for my idealized version of it, but I still carried within me many aspects of a social gospel that I had learned while in church; love for the downtrodden, empathy for those that are hurting, willingness to help others where I could. The golden rule had been inculcated within me and though I was by far an imperfect practitioner of it, at least I kept it as a standard to strive towards and measure myself.

I also continued to learn what I could about my inner spiritual life, to notice my inner motivations and my true feelings, and to make sense of the jumble of ideas and thoughts that ran constantly through my head. Meditation and theater rehearsals still provided me with tools and opportunities to practice inner awareness but I was still several years removed from engaging in something approaching spiritual warfare, or an active and consciously applied effort to fight and win against spiritual things detrimental to myself and others; and the time of applying myself to this fight systematically and with ongoing determination would be something I wouldn’t be initiated in, or begin to practice, for quite some time.

To this very point, I recall a conversation I had with my step-mother at the time. She was bringing up some failings of mine, and observing that I was out of control in some significant ways in my life. I couldn’t disagree with her because she was correct, but I explained why I felt this was the case; I offered a comparison of my inner being to a complicated M1 tank. In my view, I had been dropped into myself without an owner’s manual and suddenly I had to learn what all these levers and buttons and controls and screens meant, in order to operate myself properly, and frankly, I hadn’t a clue how to operate myself properly. I was just going through life guessing, and making things up as I went along; doing a little trial and error here, a little self-correcting there, experimenting with this and with that, and hoping I wouldn’t mess up too badly. Admittedly, it was an imperfect practice, and I yearned for something better, but I made the best with what I knew.

Soon after returning to California from Alaska I began my next school year. I started studying Mandarin Chinese in preparation for a semester abroad the following year. I lived on campus, which was situated in the hills south of Petaluma; a bucolic and serene setting perfect for contemplation and immersing oneself in nature. On a daily basis I could watch deer walking by my first floor dorm window and often resident raccoons could be seen congregating around the front door, eating from our dorm-kitty’s food dish. Having grown used to sleeping on the ground in Alaska, and indeed much of my life, I gave my mattress to the facilities manager for safe keeping and spread a colorful Mexican blanket over the plywood bedframe in my dorm room and used this as my bed for the year.

Chinese language and culture appealed to me because of the mystery involved; the written language was so different from my own, and the cultural history, from the various dynasties up through the Long March and the Cultural Revolution was strange and different and captured my imagination. As part of this exploration I began to read the Tao Te Ching, the basic philosophical and religious text of Taoism written by Lao Tzu. It didn’t enthrall me in the same way as the Bhagavad-Gita but I was impressed by the value it placed on things counter-cultural to my way of thinking; things like passivity and weakness which my culture disdains, and the harmony and balance one can achieve when one embraces these alternatives, along with their opposites, in a unified whole.

As a complement to this study I began taking Aikido at a local Dojo in town. While this martial art is from Japan, not China, and Taoism and Aikido don’t share a common lineage, for me Aikido seemed to embody concepts I was learning in Taoism. For instance, in Taoism there is a famous image about the strength of water in relation to rock, and how over time the water is stronger and wears down the rock; while in Aikido, one meets one’s opponent or aggressor in a way similar to water, allowing the force and violence of one’s attacker to flow past one, and to redirect their violent energy into a more constructive energy that harms no one. I enjoyed applying the theory of the Tao in a practical and active method through Aikido.

Against the backdrop of studying Mandarin and my other classes I was also involved in several theatrical productions. As I’ve mentioned earlier, theater was more important to me for what I could learn about myself and about other people and less about the production or the finished product. In our theater community that year, we had a visiting director from Poland who had worked with the renowned Polish director Jerzy Grotowski, so we were excited to learn what he brought with him from his experience. We were working together on a scene from Martin Buber’s play, Elijah and discussing how best to translate Buber’s interpretation of the Biblical account into modern terms to reach a modern audience. In the course of this discussion the director began to speak about Buber’s own philosophy and his method of Biblical interpretation, or hermeneutics. He went on to explain that as actors, writers, producers we are also engaged in hermeneutics in how we approach the text of the play, and how we translate that into action and perform it for an audience. The question was how to make the Biblical story understood to the audience in the deepest, most visceral and dramatic way, simply and without artifice but with sincerity and honesty and power.

This discussion reoriented me and gave my life new purpose. I had never heard the term, hermeneutics before and I was so excited by the prospect of interpreting sacred scripture and joining that to theater for the purpose of making spiritual truths known and understood by an audience. This idea was a seed of a new life’s purpose; I wanted to write plays which would somehow interpret sacred truths in an accessible way, presenting them to an audience so as to make the unknowable knowable, and to inspire and instruct in these truths to open people to hidden realms so they could know that there is more to life than just what we see and touch.

I wanted to bring the mystery down to earth in some way, to battle the cold rationalism, and the narrowness of the literal, data influenced culture of my society where things are only true and only matter if you can prove them beyond a shadow of a doubt, with lots of facts and charts and graphs to prove your point. I knew in the depths of my heart that God wouldn’t be known this way, that He couldn’t be known this way, and my peers were losing faith in droves because they were trying to find Him in the wrong ways and with the wrong means and because of this they were giving up and dismissing faith as a fairy tale. I wanted to reverse that trend.

(to be continued)

~FS

All was not lost, although most of it was; I had lost all my clothing except what I had on, my wallet, money, identification, sleeping bag and mat, tent, and my souvenir rocks, which I didn’t really miss and was happy to be rid of the extra weight. I still had a small shoulder pack in which I kept my journal and pen and my remaining food: several slices of bread, what remained of my jar of peanut butter and my ever-present container of garlic salt.

I didn’t take much time to mourn my losses but noticed a bridge not too far from me that spanned the river, so I crossed into what I imagined and hoped must be Portland. I found a visitor’s center which confirmed my hopes but I couldn’t find a good place to catch a ride south. I was tired and had lost patience for waiting on the side of roads so I just started walking south through the streets of Portland. I didn’t have a plan and wasn’t sure how I’d make it the remaining six hundred odd miles home so I just walked.

My hopes were raised when I passed a Methodist Church and some of the members were out front doing some weeding. Though I hadn’t attended a Methodist Church in some time I still felt like here were my people, plus Methodists are known for social outreach and aiding those in need. I was sure to receive some help, perhaps a little money, or food, or maybe a place to sleep for the night. With new-found joy I approached the group and told them a little about my story, how I had been hitching back home and lost my backpack on the train and had nothing left, and I inquired if they could offer any assistance to aid me in my plight. Their reaction was far from what I expected and not only was it unhelpful but it was actually cold and disdainful. I felt ashamed, for myself, and for them. This isn’t what John and Charles Wesley had in mind when they began their church based upon their method; this wasn’t the good news, but instead it was turning ones back on a stranger. I tried a different line of inquiry hoping they just didn’t understand, I couldn’t conceive that these members of my church family would turn me away without even a measure of kindness. In the end however that was all I received, a small measure of kindness, as one of the older ladies in the group gave me a half-smile as she wished me good luck.

So with a half-hearted smile to fill my stomach and an insipid blessing to keep me warm, I left and looked for a place to sleep, as it was growing dark. Not far away I found a bench under a lamppost in a remote corner of a small neighborhood park. It was a safe place, protected on three sides by trees and shrubs and well-lit. It was a long, cold night but thankfully I had been able to pull my jacket off the train so I had some measure of comfort as I lay on the bench and tried to sleep.

But sleep was difficult to come by with the sounds of the city in the distance and other neighborhood activity nearby. These sounds exacerbated my feeling of loneliness somehow and I longed to see some friends again and to talk with someone that I knew and who knew me. The light and shadow cast by the lamppost upon the surrounding shrubs gave them character and depth and animated them to my mind. As I sat up and scanned the foliage I could begin to discern distinct shapes within their branches and leaves. In time I realized that I was in the company of numerous animals and fantastic creatures who were interested in making my acquaintance and sharing their stories with me. Suddenly the night was not nearly so lonely as I began to converse with my new friends, these shrub-creatures, and inquire of their habits, proclivities and adventures. There was Mr Frog who was recovering from a very difficult day, and he was joined by Rat-Man who fancied bowler hats and dainty foods, farther along was a group of squirrels and a porcupine discussing recent events over tea, and further into the trees lived a troll, not particularly handsome, but with a good nature which made up for his physical shortcomings. I shared my difficult predicament with them and they all expressed concern and offered me encouragement, telling me that tomorrow would certainly be a better day. Mr Frog could relate and was certain things would look brighter for one of us or the other; and he guessed it would probably be me that things would take a turn for the better. I consoled him as well and also wished him a better tomorrow. Eventually the night passed and the morning began to awaken, and with the gathering light my friends slowly faded back into the foliage and disappeared among the shrubs.

I continued my walk south, not sure of my plan, but I sensed that I was beginning to lose my ability to cope with my situation, and that I needed to find some help soon.  I perceived that my emotions and my mind were fraying around the edges, and this awareness gave me insight into the mental difficulties of others who live permanently on the streets. I was afraid of losing my mind and my grip on reality and this scared me and made my heart grow with concern for anyone in a similar situation. Living on the street, the loneliness, existing on the margins of society as a pariah, enduring the elements, with little food and fear of attack at night, can take a tremendous toll on a person.

I begged for some change and called my mom. I explained my situation and we worked out a way for me to get a Greyhound bus ticket home, leaving the next morning. That night I found shelter under a pickup truck canopy in a store lot where these canopies were sold. I found one laying on the asphalt, opened the back hatch and climbed inside. It was cramped and it was cold laying on the asphalt, even with a piece of cardboard underneath but I felt safe and nobody knew I was there. I passed the night, sleeping a little, but waiting with anticipation for the bus that would arrive to pick me up early the next morning and take me home.

8:00 am arrived and I was standing at the bus stop expectantly. I had the address listed on the ticket and the correct time but the bus didn’t come. A few minutes passed and I began to worry. I couldn’t conceive of another night spent on a bench or under a truck canopy, or another night without anything to eat.  As I was considering this possibility, a Greyhound bus turned the corner, but stopped on the other side of the street, heading the wrong direction. Like my error with the train, I grew confused and I determined this must be a different bus since it was on the northbound side of the street. I watched the bus unload one or two people and I grew uneasy and anxious. What if it is my bus and I’m about to miss it because I’m on the wrong side of the street? I called out and started to run towards it as it moved away from the curb. I didn’t get very close by the time the bus turned the corner and disappeared, leaving me standing alone in the street. I couldn’t believe how stupid I was and why didn’t I walk over to it and just ask where it was going? Why did I wait so long just watching it, assuming it wasn’t my bus? Oh what a sorry idiot I was, and a stranded one too.

Frantically I found some money from some frightened soul who probably thought I was out of my mind and I called my mom again. I had come unglued by now and she could hear it in my voice. She talked me back down to a place of relative calm and said she’d work it out, to stay with her, not to worry, that she needed me to keep it together. After a call to the bus company she called me back at the pay phone where I stood in a daze, and told me there would be another bus that I could take the following morning. That was good news of course, but I heard it as if through water, muffled and distant and drowned out by the sound of my own thoughts and emotions crashing down around me. It was a beautiful sunny, late August day, with just a slight crispness in the air, hinting of fall coming soon. I could appreciate as I stood digesting this news that someone was enjoying the weather but I couldn’t find any joy in it. I was stuck another day in purgatory.

I thanked my mom for all of her help, assured her I’d be okay, told her I loved her and hung up the phone. I don’t remember the rest of that day. I suppose I lived it, since I did get on the bus the next morning, but I have no recollection of anything that happened after that phone call until the next morning when I got on the bus, sank into my seat and fell asleep, finally, finally heading home.

(to be continued)

~FS

I came to Alaska for more than just a summer job and an adventure; I also hoped to find out who I was, to discover myself in an essential way, at least in part. I believed that I would find this by returning to the place of my birth. As I boarded the ferry in Skagway I was excited because I was finally on the leg of the journey that would take me literally to where I began: Ketchikan. I had great hope that returning to my geographic origin would shed some light on my true self.

The first thing I did upon disembarking the ferry was walk to the home my family had rented back in 1969. I knew the address and could recognize it from family photos. Seeing that old house in person filled me with a reverential nostalgia. For me this was a visit to a family shrine or historical landmark. It was a place of stories and of dreams come to life. I imagined my parents at the top of the long flight of stairs, looking down at me from the landing near the front door. I could picture my sisters inside at the dining room table having dinner, and my brother alone in his room drawing something; he was a good artist. We were all here, together again, a family for a moment; just like my faint memories from childhood. I stood in the waning light, staring at our home, while the rain fell lightly on my head, remembering, imagining, pretending; and then I heard music. Faint organ music lightly touched the air around me and I looked for its source.

The music was coming from an open doorway of a church just down the street. I took another quick look at our old house and then walked to the church. I stepped inside and sat down in the back to listen to the organist play several more pieces. When he finished he called out to me and asked if I liked the organ. I told him about the amazing organ from my childhood church with all of the enormous pipes, and how I loved to hear a good organist. We both shared a love of Bach and after a short conversation about this, and his revelation that I had no place to sleep, he invited me to his home for dinner and a place to set up my sleeping bag for the night. It turned out that not only was he good at the organ, he could also cook, being the head chef at a local restaurant. He made us both a simple but excellent meal, though admittedly my rations from dumpsters the past two months had lowered my expectations, and afterwards he pulled out the accordion and played a few more songs for me. It was the perfect end to a meaningful night and the next morning he invited me to stay as long as I was in town. He even allowed me to keep my things at his house and gave me a copy of the house key to come and go as I pleased. This was a kind and generous man and a trusting and loving soul.

Later that day I visited the only hospital in town and explained to the receptionist and asked if this was the same hospital that existing back in the 1960s. It was, so I asked if I could visit the maternity wing and even see the delivery room where I had been born. She called to the nurses and I was given a tour. The nurses found my visit amusing and were very happy to show me around. The hospital had two delivery rooms, side by side and connected visually by large windows. The rooms were clad in light blueish-green square tiles and had a very clinical look to them, but they were attractive and clean. It was an odd feeling, standing there in the delivery room, imagining my beginnings in this very spot all those years ago, so long ago. And yet here it was, and here I was, how time hadn’t changed anything and yet changed everything. I took a few photos of the rooms and the nurses, thanked them for their time and kindness and left.

I had a few more hours before evening, when Jay would be returning home from his work at the restaurant, so I took a cab to a trailhead south of town and went on a little hike. More than any other time that summer, I had a forlorn and homesick feeling while hiking outside of Ketchikan. Here I was at the place of my birth, having seen my first family home, and the hospital and delivery room where I came into this world and I felt so alone. This wasn’t my home anymore. I missed my mom and my friends, and Santa Rosa–the town I knew like the back of my hand, and my hill, and my dad. Everything seemed to rush upon me, all the things I loved and felt so far away from up here in Alaska. Suddenly I just wanted to be back home again and done with this trip. I was tired of being wet and cold, and sleeping always in a different place, meeting someone new each day, never seeing anything I knew. I wanted to see something familiar again.

Two days later I disembarked the ferry in Seattle. I had made a cardboard sign for Portland that I planned to use to hitchhike once I made my way up to the freeway. In Seattle, the ferry terminal and the train-yard are very close to one another, maybe a mile walk, and the tracks go right past the ferry. As a joke I held my sign up to a passing freight train heading south as I left the ferry terminal and to my surprise the engineer leaned out the window (it was travelling very slow through town) and said I could hop on a boxcar when he stopped just up at the yard. I should follow him down he said, and he’d show me what car to get on and he could take me as far as Vancouver. I couldn’t believe my good fortune! So I did as I was told and he did what he said he would, and within a half-hour I had hopped my first train and was on my way, hobo-style, southward.

However, I wasn’t certain we were heading south and I began to question where the train was really going because I had never heard of a Vancouver, Washington. I only knew of Vancouver, Canada so I was confused as the train picked up speed, and I began to worry that we were going the wrong direction, and that we would somehow swing around at some point and I’d end up north in Canada again, instead of south near Portland. I convinced myself that this was probably what would happen, but since there wasn’t anything I could do about it I might as well enjoy the ride in the meantime. Riding in a boxcar is very loud and one gets tossed around quite a lot. But once you get used to the rhythm of the train it becomes easy to walk around the car and enjoy the sights from the open door. My car was completely empty; it felt cavernous, and the sound of the train on the tracks was amplified, and echoed from its cold steel walls, roof and floor. But all of this just added to my feeling of excitement and adventure and I couldn’t wipe the smile off my face.

Several hours later the train stopped. We were on a large embankment on the edge of an enormous river. The engineer had told me when we were in Seattle to be ready to get off the train in Vancouver before the train headed inland; I’d only have a few minutes while it stopped, before it would start again and head towards the east coast. In retrospect everything makes sense, but at the time I was confused about my location, didn’t know the area at all, should have known it was the Columbia River but didn’t, and doubted myself and the engineer. So I pulled my backpack to the door of the boxcar and left it hanging slightly over the edge as I hopped out with the intention of walking up to the front and asking the engineer for clarification. I figured if the train started I could grab my bag and pull it off if needed. I didn’t get very far when, in fact, the train did start up again. I ran back towards my car and as the train gathered speed I saw my backpack approaching me. I braced myself, focused intently on my backpack and prepared to make one sure grab and pull when the moment came upon me. As my bag passed, I grabbed and swiftly pulled it off the train; although I didn’t, and it didn’t. Instead, I only pulled my jacket off, which I had wrapped and tied over the end of my backpack. I dropped my jacket and turned just in time to watch my backpack as it rounded a curve, and then disappeared forever on its journey to who knows where.

(to be continued)

~FS

They explained how they had wanted to stop for me the day before when they had seen me in Tok, but since they were staying at the RV Park in town it didn’t make sense to pick me up. They apologized to me about that, but then, when they saw me again this morning they were happy to have another chance to give me a ride. I was grateful they had generous hearts and took a chance on picking me up. Though I smiled and I juggled while hitchhiking, to put people at ease, I was pretty rough looking, with an unkempt beard, worn clothing and long hair that was dreadlocked, and not nicely dreadlocked, but the un-manicured kind that looks like vermin might be living in there. I knew that I was a safe person and wouldn’t hurt anyone, but I couldn’t expect others to know that just by looking at me.

The three of us had a lovely time on the trip down to Skagway. They welcomed me and made me feel like family; and quickly we were sharing many details from our lives with one another. She had been diagnosed with an aggressive form of cancer and was only given a year to live so the couple was on what they expected would be their last long vacation together. She was incredibly upbeat and cheery about life and met all of it with a smile. In fact, her symbol was the round yellow smiley face; she had them everywhere in the RV, on her coffee mug, her shirt, as stickers on the RV, and on her sweatshirt. They were both so pleasant, and she was so trusting and kind, that I felt very guilty for what I put them through near the end of the day.

The drive to Skagway crosses the US-Canada border twice. The northern crossing into Canada was uneventful but as we crossed back into the US, just north of Skagway, I ran into some trouble. The border police pulled the RV to the side and asked the couple a few questions about me. When they realized I was a hitchhiker and not part of the couple’s family, they asked me gather my belongings and follow them into the building, while the couple sat and waited for me to return.

Inside the building the two officers assigned to me, had me put my backpack on the counter and proceeded to pull everything out for an inspection. Their first query was why was I carrying so many stones in my backpack? I almost said, “It’s because I’m a stoner” because I thought that would be funny and lighten the mood, but I thought better of it when I saw the ill-humor on their faces. I had found quite a few rocks in Alaska that I liked and thought were interesting so I packed them along with me to bring home as souvenirs. I had between twenty and twenty-five pounds of rocks in my backpack that I had been carrying around with me a good part of the summer. Thankfully they didn’t find any serious crime in this and they let me keep them. But when they pulled out the forgotten film canister stuffed into a side pocket, and found it half-full with white powder, their faces grew even more serious and I sensed trouble.

I quickly explained that it was only baking soda which my mom had wanted me to bring with me for the summer. They looked at me with total skepticism and unbelief. I assured them it was only baking soda and offered to try some of it right there in front of them, and they could try it too, if they didn’t believe me. They weren’t interested, but had some chemical tests instead, which they could run to determine what it was. They ran several tests on the powder, which took well over an hour, but the results were inconclusive. They couldn’t tell what it was, which struck me funny, but they weren’t going to give it back to me. I was free to leave.

I returned to the couple in the RV and apologized for keeping them so long and explained what had happened. I promised them the white powder wasn’t anything illegal and we continued into Skagway together. When we said our goodbyes I was saddened knowing that I would never see them again. I never saw the people I hitched with again so it is no surprise, but this goodbye touched on something more terminal. I knew she was dying and in the face of that realization I was lost, unprepared, and unqualified to express anything useful or satisfying. I loved her smiley faces, and her smiling face, and after they drove away; I wept.

~FS